


In the Lion's Den

by Princev_Ryley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Child Neglect, Developing Friendships, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hogwarts First Year, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Misgendering, Multi, No relationships yet, Other, Trans Character, Transphobia, and other lgbqa characters, gryffindor au, they're all babies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princev_Ryley/pseuds/Princev_Ryley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having grown up isolated and friendless, Harry is desperate to make friends. So, when Draco offers his hand in friendship, Harry is eager to accept. Is it possible that one small act can change the course of history?</p><p>A Griffindor AU.</p><p>Rated T for mentions of child abuse and for excessive swearing by children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> For the first couple of chapters, I'll be relying heavily on the text from the book, with small changes. As the story goes on, there will be more and more changes from the book (the ripple effect, if you will). So, that being said, anything you recognize probably isn't mine and probably belongs to JK Rowling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Harry.

 “Up! Get up! Now!”

Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.

“Up now girl!” she screeched. Harry stifled a groan. He heard his aunt walking towards the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back, wishing he could go back to sleep.

His aunt was back outside his door.

“Are you up yet?” she demanded.

“Nearly,” said Harry as he sat up, his head nearly brushing the ceiling.

“Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don’t you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.” Harry groaned and dropped back down to lie on his bed.

“What did you say?” his aunt snapped through the door.

“Nothing, nothing…” Harry sighed. Dudley’s birthday—how could he have forgotten? Dudley had only been crowing about it for the last few weeks.

Harry slowly sat back up, got out of bed, and started looking for a pair of socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept. When he was dressed, he went down the hall into the kitchen.

The table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley’s presents. It looked as though gotten Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated exercise—unless, of course, it involved punching somebody. Dudley’s favorite punching bag was Harry, but he couldn’t often catch him. Harry didn’t look it, but he was very fast, and he was small enough to fit in places Dudley couldn’t reach.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He often looked even smaller and skinnier than he really was because much of what he had to wear were old clothes of Dudley’s, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Of course, his school-clothes were the only things he had that weren’t Dudley’s cast-offs. Harry’s Aunt Petunia was much too proud to send her 'niece' off to school in anything other than dresses; and though they came from the charity shop, they still were nicer and fit better than any of Dudley’s old clothes.

Harry had a thin face, knobby knees, curly black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. The only things Harry liked about his own appearance was his skin color—dark enough that no one actually though he was the Dursley’s blood—and a very thin, branching scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.

“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had said. “And don’t ask questions, girl.”

_Don’t ask questions_ —that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning the bacon.

“Brush your hair!” he barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry’s hair looked like a bird’s nest. He’d then send Harry off to the bathroom to brush his hair and braid it into some semblance of submission. Sometimes, when Harry was feeling particularly bold, he’d shoot back that his hair would look better if it were short. Invariably, that would get him sent to his cupboard for the day.

_Girls don’t do boy things_ —that was the second rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel—Harry often thought that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn’t much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents.

“Thirty-seven,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s less than last year.” Dudley began to go red in the face.

Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible, in case Dudley turned the table over—something that happened with alarming regularity when Dudley didn’t get his way.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?”

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. “So I’ll have thirty… thirty…”

“Thirty-nine, sweetgums,” Aunt Petunia cut in. “Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest package. “All right then.”

At that moment, the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley demolish the mountain of presents beside him. Dudley was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried.

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs. Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t take her.” She jerked her head in Harry’s direction.

Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror, but Harry’s heart gave a leap. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a senile old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs of all the cats she’d ever owned.

“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he’d planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn’t easy when he reminded himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again.

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested.

“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the girl.”

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn’t there—or rather, as though he was something very nasty that couldn’t understand them, like a slug.

“What about what’s-her-name, your friend—Yvonne?”

“On vacation in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia. She worried the glass pearls around her neck.“I suppose we could take her to the zoo,” she said slowly, “…and leave her in the car…”

“That car’s new! She’s not sitting in it alone…”

Dudley began to sob loudly. He wasn’t really crying, but he knew if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

“I…don’t..want..her..t-t-to come!” Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs. “She always sp-spoils everything!”

Just then the doorbell rang, and a moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn’t believe his luck, was sitting in the back of the car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn’t been able to think of anything else to do with him, but before they’d left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.

“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry’s, “I’m warning you now, girl—any funny business, any at all—and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” said Harry, “honestly…”

But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe him. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around harry and it was just no good telling the Dursleys that he didn’t make them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley’s. The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn’t fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great relief, Harry wasn’t punished.

Another time, though, he’d gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley’s gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry’s surprise as anyone else’s, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry’s headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he’d tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him mid-jump.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong.

~~*~~*~~*~~

He should have known better than to expect things to go right, Harry thought to himself, hours later as he lay in his cupboard. Harry had thought that it was all going to be fine, until Piers calmed down enough on the ride back to say, “Harriet was talking to it, weren’t you?” Uncle Vernon had waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, “Go— cupboard— stay— no meals,: before he collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

_No funny business_ —that was the third rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.


	2. The Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry receives a series of mysterious letters.

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer holidays had already started and Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, the first time on his racing bike, knocked over old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley’s gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was their leader. The rest of them were all quiet happy to join in Dudley’s favorite sport: Harriet Hunting.

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his life he wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Harry hoped that this would mean he would finally have a chance to make friends and not have them scared off by Dudley and his gang.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg’s. Mrs. Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of cake that tasted as though she’d had it for several years.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters.

As he looked at Dudley in his uniform, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was here Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn’t trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.

~*~

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in grey water.

“What’s this?” he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question.

“Your new school uniform,” she said.

Harry looked in the bowl again.

“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize it had to be so wet.”

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Aunt Petunia. “I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old things, as well as some things from the charity shop, grey for you. It’ll look just like everyone else’s when I’ve finished.”

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to look on his first day at Stonewall High.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry’s new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and the flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

“Make her get it.”

“Get the mail, girl.”

“Make Dudley get it.”

“Poke her with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill and— _a letter for Harry._

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

     Mr. H. Potter

     The Cupboard under the Stairs

     4 Privet Drive

     Little Whinging

     Surrey

Not only was it addressed to him, it was addressed to a _Mister_ Potter. No one knew that, especially not around here. The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter _H._

“Hurry up, girl!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope.

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

“Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny whelk…”

“Dad!” said Dudley suddenly. “Dad, Harriet’s got something!”

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hands by Uncle Vernon.

“That’s mine!” said Harry, trying to snatch it back.

“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds it was the greyish white of old porridge.

“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first lines. For a moment, it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

“Vernon! Oh my goodness—Vernon!”

They started at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting              stick.

“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly.

“I want to read it,” Harry said furiously, “as it’s mine.”

“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Harry didn’t move.

“I WANT MY LETTER!” he shouted.

“Let me see it!” demanded Dudley.

“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw then into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen ant the crack between the door and the floor.

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, “look at the address—how could they possibly know where she sleeps. And how it’s addressed… You don’t think they’re watching the house?”

“Watching—spying—might be following us,” muttered Uncle Vernon.

“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don’t want—”

Harry could see Uncle Vernon’s shiny black shoes packing up and down the kitchen.

“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an answer… Yes, that’s best… we won’t do anything…”

“But—”

“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we swear when we took her in that we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?”

~*~

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.

“Where’s my letter?” Harry demanded, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. “Who’s writing to me?”

“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said Uncle Vernon shortly. “I have burned it.”

“It was not a mistake,” said Harry angrily, “it had my cupboard on it.”

“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon. He took a couple of deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

“Er, yes—Harry —about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking… you’re really getting a bit big for it… we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.”

“Why?” said Harry.

“Don’t ask questions!” snapped his uncle. “Take this stuff upstairs, now.”

It took Harry only one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to Dudley’s second bedroom. He sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The only exception was the lone shelf full of books; those looked as though they had never been touched.

Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he’d have given anything to be up here. Today he’d rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it. If only he’d put the letter in the cupboard to read later!

~*~

The next day, another letter came, addressed to a “Mr. H. Potter” in “The Smallest Bedroom”, and was immediately confiscated by his Uncle Vernon.

The letters continued to come, in increasing numbers and in increasingly odd locations (on Saturday there were letters in each of the two dozen eggs Aunt Petunia opened). On Sunday, Uncle Vernon reached a breaking point, when nearly fifty or so letters came pelting out of the chimney.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!”

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they were in the car, speeding towards the highway.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.

They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall, Dudley was howling. He’d never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored, but Harry stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering…

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

“’Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an ‘undred of these at the front desk.”

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

     Mr. H. Potter

     Room 17

     Railview Hotel

     Cokeworth

Harry made a grab for the letter but Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.

~*~

“Wouldn’t it be better just to go back home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. He just continued driving. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He would drive for some time, get out, look around, shake his head, get back in the car and back off they’d go. This had happened several times.

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “My show’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television!”

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “My show’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television!”

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday, then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry’s eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun—last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks. Still, you weren’t eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia’s when she asked what he’d bought.

“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on! Everyone out!”

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain; there was no television.

~*~

The boat ride to the shack was cold and miserable. The icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces.

The broken-down house wasn’t much better. It smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty.

As night fell, the storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged on, more and more ferocious as the night went on. Harry couldn’t sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. From the ground, Harry could see the lighted dial from Dudley’s watch. It was almost midnight. It was almost his birthday.

Five minutes to go. Harry wondered where the letter writer was now. Were they still sending letters to the house in Privet Drive? Maybe there would be so many letters there that, when they got back, Harry could steal one.

Three minutes to go. Thunder rumbled, and was that the sea on the rocks?

Two minutes. What was that crunching noise?

One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds… ten… nine—maybe he’d wake Dudley up, just to annoy him—three… two… one…

BOOM!

The whole shack shivered and Harry bolted upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

BOOM!

They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands—now they knew what had been in the long thin package.

BOOM!

The house rocked again.

Uncle Vernon shouted, “Who’s there? I’m warning you—I’m armed”

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and, with a deafening crash, landed flat on the ground.

In the door way stood a man taller and wider than any Harry had ever seen. Harry gripped his blanket as lightning flashed behind the giant, illuminating his silhouette as he stepped through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter up! I'm planning on having the third chapter up by Tuesday evening. That's where you'll really start to see more differences, I swear! As it stands now, this fic is un-beta'd, so if anyone is interested, shoot me a message or leave a comment. I would be eternally grateful if someone wanted to be my beta!  
> Thanks y'all for reading!


	3. The Giant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hagrid is introduced.

 

As the man squeezed through the doorway, the dim light of the hut illuminated his face. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy main of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles, under all the hair. Inside, the man bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.

“Sorry about that,” he boomed, his loud voice echoing in the small room. He stepped closer to the family. “Couldn’t make us a cup o’ tea, could yeh? It’s not been an easy journey…”

He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat, frozen with fear.

“Budge up, yeh great lump,” said the stranger.

Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon. They made quite the picture; Harry had to stifle a laugh.

“An’ here’s Harry!” said the giant.

Harry jerked to face the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

He was suddenly very aware of how he must look; wearing a jumper four sizes too big, wrapped in a greying, ragged blanket, and no doubt his hair looked frightful, all curls and frizz and fraying braid. Harry ducked his head.

“Las’ time I saw yeh, yeh was only a baby,” said the giant. “Yer a spittin’ image o’ yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer mum’s eyes.”

Harry stared up at the stranger in shock. The giant of a man knew his parents and called him _Harry._ Who was this man?

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

“I demand that you leave at once, sir!” he said. “You are breaking and entering!”

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune,” said the giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

“Anyway—Harry,” said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, “a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here—I mighta sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste all right.”

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with _Happy Birthday Harry_ written on it in green icing.

The giant cleared his throat, “I hope yeh don’ mind. I reckoned yeh didn’ want ‘Harriet’.”

Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank you, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was, “Who are you?”

The giant chuckled.

“True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

He held out an            enormous hand and shook Harry’s whole arm.

“What about that tea then, eh?” he said rubbing his hands together. “I’d not say no ter summat stronger if yeh’ve got it, mind.”

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; Harry couldn’t see what he was doing, but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Harry felt the warmth wash over him as though he’d sunk into a hot bath.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little.

Uncle Vernon said sharply, “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.

The giant chuckled darkly.

“Yer great puddin’ of a son don’ need fattenin’ anymore, Dursley, don’ worry.”

He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry he had never tasted anything so wonderful, but he still couldn’t take his eyes off the giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.”

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. An’ like I told yeh, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts—yeh’ll know all abou’ Hogwarts, o’ course.”

“Er—no,” said Harry.

Hagrid looked shocked.

“Sorry,” Harry said quickly, ducking his head.

“ _Sorry?”_ barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. “It’s them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren’t gettin’ yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn’t even know abou’ Hogwarts, fer cryin’ out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yer parents learned it all?”

“All what?” asked Harry.

“ALL WHAT?” Hagrid thundered. “Now wait jus’ one second!”

He had leapt to his feet. In his anger, he seemed to fill the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

“Do you mean ter tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys, “that this boy—this boy!—knows nothin’ abou’—abou’ ANYTHING?”

Harry though this was going a bit far. He had been to school, after all, and his marks weren’t bad.

“I know _some_ things,” he said with a huff. “I can, you know, do math and stuff.”

But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About _our_ world, I mean. _Yer_ world. _My_ world. _Yer_ parents’ world.”

“What world?”

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode. Harry quickly scrambled back as far as the small hut would allow, clutching the ragged blanket to his chest.

“DURSLEY!” he boomed.

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like “Mimblewimble.” Hagrid stared wildly at Harry.

“But yeh must know about yer mum and dad,” he said. “I mean, they’re _famous._ Yer _famous._ ”

“What? My—my mum and dad weren’t famous, were they?”

“Yeh don’ know… yeh don’ know…” Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare.

“Yeh don’ know what yeh _are_?” he said finally.

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.

“Stop!” he commanded. “Stop right there, sir! I forbid you to tell the girl anything!”

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with rage.

“Yeh never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore lef’ fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’ yeh’ve kep’ it from him all these years?”

“Kept _what_ from me?” said Harry eagerly, his curiosity getting the best of him.

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.

Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.

“Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,” said Hagrid. He turned to Harry and said, “Harry—yer a wizard.”

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard.

“I’m a what?” gasped Harry.

“A wizard, o’ course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, “an’ a thumpin good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve been trained up a bit. With a mum an’ dad like yers, what else would yeh be?”

Hagrid rummaged through one of his pockets before pulling out a familiar, yellowish envelope. “An’ I reckon it’s abou’ time yeh read yer letter.”

Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the envelope, addressed in emerald green to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He pulled out the letter and eagerly read.

Questions exploded inside Harry’s head like fireworks and he couldn’t decide which to ask first. After a few minutes, he managed to stammer out a question he’d had since he first saw one of these letters, “How do they do this,” he said, gesturing at the envelope, “I mean—how did they know to address it to Mr. Harry Potter?”

Hagrid let out a rough chuckle.

“How do they know—why magic o’ course!” Hagrid chuckled again. “The same way they know who ter address any letter ter.”

Harry slowly nodded. He supposed that made sense, as much as any of this did. He glanced back at the letter in his hand. Before he could ask anything else, his uncle spoke.

“She’s not going,” he said.

Hagrid grunted.

“I’d like ter see a great muggle like you stop _him_ ,” he said.

“We swore when we took her in we’d put a stop to that rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp it out of her. Swore she’d be normal. Witch indeed”

“You knew?” Harry burst out, “You knew I’m a—a wizard?”

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia. “Knew! Of course we knew. How could we not, my dratted sister being what she was. She got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that—that school. I was the only one who saw her for what she was—a freak! But for my mother and father—they were so proud of having a witch in the family!”

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on.

“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange just as— as— abnormal—and then, she went and got herself blown up, and we got landed with you!”

Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice he said, “Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!”

“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. “A car crash kill Lily an’ James Potter? It’s an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin’ his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!”

“But why? What happened?” Harry asked urgently.

The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He suddenly looked anxious.

“I never expected this,” he said, in a low worried voice. “I had no idea…”

He trailed off, seemingly lost in thought. Hagrid gestured for Harry to sit beside him. “Ah, Harry, I don’ know if I’m the right person ter tell yeh—but someone’s gotta—yeh can’t go off ter Hogwarts not knowin’ yer own story.”

Harry moved to the couch. As he settled himself down, the giant spoke, low and rough. For the first time since he lived it, Harry was hearing his story. It was rough on Hagrid; the giant stopped several times to blow his nose like a foghorn on a filthy hanky. As he came to the end of the tale, he paused, collected himself, and then finished, “No one ever lived after he decided ter kill ‘em, no one except you, an’ you was only a baby, an’ you lived.”

Hagrid was watching him sadly.

“Took yeh from the ruined house meself, on Dumbledore’s orders. Brough’ yeh ter this lot…”

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped off the sofa; he had almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched.

“Now, you listen here, girl,” he snarled, “I accept there’s something strange about you—” he paused to sneer at Harry.

Harry took an involuntary step back and wrapped his arms around his torso. He knew exactly what his uncle was talking about. He had heard that rant too many times not to.

His uncle shook his head in disgust and continued, “—Nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured—and for all this about your parents, well the world’s better off without them. And at least they didn’t live to see what a freak y—”

At that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said, “I’m warnin’ yeh Dursley, one more word…”

Uncle Vernon’s courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent.

“Tha’s better,” said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor. He gestured for Harry to sit back down. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Harry turned from his relatives and sank into the space beside Hagrid. Twisting his body, Harry turned to look up at the man next to him. He still had many questions to ask.

“But what happened to Vol—sorry, You-Know-Who?”

“Good question Harry. Disappeared, vanished. Tha’s the biggest myst’ry see… why’d he go? He’d been gainin’ an’ gainin’ power, had no reason to stop.

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Didn’ have enough human lef’ in him to die. Others say he’s bidin’ his time, waitin’ to come back. Bu’ I don’ believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some came outta kinda trances. Don’ reckon they could’ve if he was comin’ back.

“Most of us rekon he’s still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak ter carry on. There was somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on, somthin’ about you stumped him.”

Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been some horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could this possibly be? He’d spent his life being clouted by Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn’t they been turned into warty toads every time they’d tried to lock him in his cupboard? If he’d once defeated the greatest sorcerer in the world before he was out of diapers, how come Dudley had always been able to kick him around like a football?

“Hagrid,” he said quietly, regretfully, “I think you must have made a mistake. I don’t think I can be a wizard.”

In the short time he’d known about Hogwarts, he’d hoped to go, to be himself away from the Dursleys. Harry felt this fragile hope begin to crumble.

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

“No’ a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when yeh was scared or angry?”

Harry looked into the fire. Now that he came to think about it… every odd thing, every bit of ‘funny business’ that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious had happened with he, Harry, had been upset or angry… chased by Dudley’s gang, he’d somehow found himself out of their reach… dreading going back to school in that ridiculous jumper, it’d somehow shrunk too small to wear… and the very last time Dudley had hit him—hadn’t he gotten his revenge, without even realizing it? Hadn’t he set a boa constrictor on him?

Harry looked back up at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was positively beaming at him.

“See?” said Hagrid. “Harry Potter, no’ a wizard—yeh wait, yeh’ll be righ’ famous at Hogwarts.”

But Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to give in without a fight.

“Haven’t I told you she’s not going?” he hissed. “She’s going to Stonewall High, and she’ll be grateful for it. I’ve read those letters and she needs all sorts of rubbish—spell books and wands and—”

“If _he_ wants ter go, a great muggle like yeh won’ stop him,” growled Hagrid. “Stop Lily an’ James Potter’s son goin’ ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name’s been down ever since he was born. He’s off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there an’ he won’ know himself. He’ll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an’ he’ll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled—”

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HER MAGIC TRICKS!” yelled Uncle Vernon.

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head, “NEVER—” he thundered, “—INSULT—ALBUS—DUMBLEDORE—IN—FRONT—OF—ME!”

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley—there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

This time a short, hard laugh escaped Harry before he could stop it.

Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the other room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.

“Shouldn’ta lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it didn’ work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn’t much left ter do.”

He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy eyebrows.

“Be grateful if yeh didn’ mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts,” he said. “I’m—er—not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an’ get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff—one o’ the reasons I was so keen ter take the job—”

“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” asked Harry.

“Oh, well—I was at Hogwarts meself but I—er—got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an’ everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.”

“Why were you expelled?”

“It’s getting late, and we’ve got lots ter do tomorrow,” Hagrid said loudly. “Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an’ that.”

He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Harry.

“You can kip under that,” he said. “Don’ mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o’ dormice in one o’ the pockets.”

~*~

The two set off early the next morning, after a breakfast of leftover sausage and hot tea.

They took the little rowboat the Dursleys and Harry had used to get to the island to get back to shore. With a little help from Hagrid’s pink umbrella ( _“Yeh mind not mentionin’ this at Hogwarts, too?”_ ), Hagrid and Harry quickly reached the harbor. They walked through the little town to the train, attracting more than a few stares. Not that Harry blamed them, as Hagrid was twice as tall as anyone else and he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See that, Harry? Things these muggles dream up, eh?” 

At the train station, Hagrid gave the bills to Harry to buy their tickets to London (“ _Don’ understand muggle money, ter be honest.”_ ). People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.

“Still got yer letter, Harry?” he asked as he counted stitches.

Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.

“Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list there of everythin’ yeh need.”

Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t noticed the night before; it was the supply list. He looked back at Hagrid.

“Can we buy all this in London?” Harry wondered aloud.

“If yeh know where to go,” said Hagrid.

 

Harry had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

“I don’ know how the muggles manage withou’ magic,” he said as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Harry had to do was keep close behind him. They passed bookshops and music stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke that the Dursleys had cooked up? If Harry hadn’t known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, he might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything Hagrid had told him so far was unbelievable, Harry couldn’t help trusting him.

“This is it,” said Hagrid, coming to a halt, “the Leaky Cauldron. It’s a famous place.”

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn’t pointed it out, Harry wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big bookshop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the Leaky Cauldron. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it. Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered him inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quiet bald and looked rather like a toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual, Hagrid?”

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid, clapping his great hand on Harry’s shoulder and making Harry’s knees buckle.

“Good Lord,” said the bartender, peering at Harry, “is this—can it be—”

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Harriet Potter… what an honor.”

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry, and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Miss Potter, welcome back.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. Harry gave the bartender a weak smile. Before he could say anything further, he was surrounded with well-wishers.

Overwhelmed and slightly afraid, Harry took a step back, pressing himself into Hagrid’s large body. Harry felt Hagrid's large hand on his shoulder again.

Hagrid pushed Harry forward, gently—or at least, gently for him; Harry still nearly fell over—steering him through the crowd. As he did so, he called out.

“Mus’ get on—lot’s ter buy. Mr. Potter needs his school supplies.”

Harry flinched, bracing for the crowd’s reaction. Hagrid bent down until his head was next to Harry’s.

“Don’ worry, lad. They understand. Listen ter them,” said Hagrid, nudging Harry forward.

Harry listened. He could hear them discussing him as Hagrid lead him through the bar.

“Mr. Potter? Did he say Mr. Potter—”

“The Potter heiress is an heir? Well I’ll be”

“He’s got the proper hair for—”

“—well, whaddya think of that, Doris?”

The noise abruptly stopped as they stepped out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trashcan and a few weeds. Harry turned to Hagrid, he had so many questions, so many more questions, to ask him.

“Hagrid, back there—”

“Told yeh yeh was famous,” Hagrid said with a grin. He turned to face the wall above the trashcan and started counting.

Harry tried again.

“No, not that part…” he trailed off as he watched Hagrid. He was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

“Three up… two across…” he muttered. “Right. Stand back, Harry.”

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

The brick he had touched quivered in the middle and a small hole appeared. It grew wider and wider, a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway into a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

Hagrid turned to face Harry.

“Welcome,” he said, “to Diagon Alley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! This one ran a bit long, so yay? But I got it up today, and that's what's important. The next chapter should be up by the weekend some time (should things go according to plan).  
> Thank y'all for reading, commenting, and kudos-ing. You don't know how much that means to me!


	4. Diagon Alley

Hagrid grinned at Harry's amazement. They stepped through the archway. Harry looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. _Cauldrons: All Sizes—Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver—Self-stirring, Collapsible,_ said a sign hanging over them.

“Yeah, yeh’ll be needin’ one,” said Hagrid, “but we gotta get yer money first.”

That caught Harry’s attention.

“My money?” he asked. “I haven’t any.”

Hagrid chuckled.

“The money yer parents left yeh, o’ course. It’s there,” said Hagrid, pointing to a large marble building at the end of the alley, “at Gringotts, the wizarding bank.”

Before Harry could ask any more questions, Hagrid set off toward the bank.

As Harry followed Hagrid, he wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, sixteen sickles to an ounce, they’re mad…”

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying, _Eeylops Owl Emporium—Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy._ Several boys of about Harry’s age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. “Look,” Harry heard one of them say, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand—fastest ever—” There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eel eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon, and—

“Gringotts,” said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white building that towed over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze door, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was—

“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard, and long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked past.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the large silver doors, and then they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count, leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of them. Hagrid and Harry made for the counter.

“Mornin’,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter’s safe.”

The goblin peered over the counter at Harry, and gave him a long look. At last, he said, “And does Mr. Potter have his key?”

“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets into the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin’s book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

“Got it,” Hagrid said at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely.

“That seems to be in order.”

“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.”

The goblin read the letter carefully.

“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid, “I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Harry followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in—Hagrid with some difficulty—and were off.

They hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Left, right, right, left, middle fork, right. Harry tried to remember the way, but it was impossible.

They plunged downward, even deeper below the bank above. Harry gripped the side of the cart excitedly. This was like a rollercoaster—or, at least it was like what he thought a roller coaster would be like. For one of his birthdays, Dudley had gone to an amusement park with Piers. When they had gotten back, the huge rollercoaster was all they could talk about. Harry imagined this was even better.

The cart flew past an underground lake, where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

“I never know,” Harry called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart, “what’s the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?”

“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Hagrid. “An’ don’ ask me questions jus’ now, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He did look rather green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling.

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze knuts.

“All of this—this is all my money?” Harry asked, awed.

Griphook answered, “This is your personal vault, yes. Everything you see here is yours.”

All Harry’s—it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t have known about this or they’d have had it from him faster than blinking. How often had they complained how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time there had been a fortune belonging to him, buried deep under London.

Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag.

“The gold ones are galleons. Seventeen silver sickles to a galleon and twenty-nine bronze knuts to a sickle, it’s easy enough. Right, that should be enough fer a couple o’ terms, we’ll keep the rest safe for yeh.” He turned to Griphook. “Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?”

“One speed only,” said Griphook.  

At that, Hagrid turned even greener—something Harry hadn’t thought possible—and followed Harry back into the cart. Then they were off again, zipping deeper into the caverns.

oOoOo

Another wild cart ride later, they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Harry didn’t know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He didn’t have to know how many Galleons there were to a pound to know he was holding more money than he’d had in his whole life—more money than even Dudley had ever had.

As they walked back down the alley, Harry saw a side street that he hadn’t noticed on his way to Gringotts. The shops that lined the street were cleaner and brighter looking than the ones along Diagon Alley. Down the way, Harry could see signs for all types of shops, like a jeweler’s, and a clockmaker’s, and even a toy store. But the sign that really caught his eye hung a few shops in and simply read, _Weeoanwhisker's Barber Shop—Men’s Haircuts and Shaves since 1804._

Harry stopped suddenly, nearly causing Hagrid to run him over. An idea occurred to him.

“Hagrid,” Harry said slowly, “can I go down there, to the barbershop?”

“Might as well,” said Hagrid, “Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up at the Leakey Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts.”

He did still look a bit sick, so Harry nodded.

“Can yeh find yer way from there to Madam Malkin’s?” said Hagrid. At Harry’s nod, he continued, “I’ll meet yeh there, after me pick-me-up.”

With that, Hagrid was off, leaving Harry to enter the barbershop alone.

oOoOo

A bell chimed overhead as Harry entered the shop.

“Welcome to Weeoanwhisker’s Barber Shop. Go ahead and have a seat in the chair. I’ll be right with you,” came a voice from a curtained off doorway in the back.

Harry took a seat in the tall barber’s chair and looked around. The barbershop was smaller than he expected; the room itself wasn’t much bigger than Dudley’s first bedroom. The large mirror in front of him was surrounded on three sides with dark wood cabinets. A lone wooden chair sat in front of the window. Through the glass, Harry could see people rushing to and fro, in and out of the little shops. There were little old ladies, bent nearly in half, coming from the salon further down. Old men were playing chess outside a pub. Mothers with small children were rushing back and forth. As he watched the people, Harry removed the hair tie from the end of his braid and began the laborious process of unbraiding his curls.

“And who do we have here?”

Harry jumped and twisted around to see the man behind him. He was tall and wiry and darker than Harry. His black hair was shaved short and his moustache was large and curled up at the ends. Wild eyebrows capped black eyes that twinkled kindly.

“Well?” he asked, his voice low and warm. The man’s voice sounded like what Harry imagined home felt like. When Harry didn’t answer, the man asked again, “What’s your name? I can’t just call you ‘you’ the whole time you’re here.”

“Right. It’s Harry—er, just Harry,” said Harry. He sat back down and watched the man behind him in the mirror.

The man smiled and said, “Well, ‘Just Harry’, I’m Basil and I’ll be cutting your hair today. So, what’ll it be?”

“Er, I don’t know, really,” Harry said. “Short, I guess.”

“How short is short? Shaved like mine? Shoulder length?” he asked.

Harry shrugged. He hadn’t really planned for this. “Not as short as yours. Other than that…” He gave another shrug.

“Hmmm. I think maybe, yes…” the man trailed off. He tugged at a strand of Harry’s hair then let it go. He stared at Harry’s face from different angles before straightening quickly and turning around.

Basil went to one of the many cabinets and rummaged through the contents, muttering to himself. After a few minutes, he exclaimed, “Aha!” and pulled his head out from the cupboard. He turned to Harry and handed him a picture.

It was a picture of a man with curls just like Harry’s. The man’s hair was longer on top and shaved short on the sides.

“What do you think ‘Just Harry’?” asked Basil. “Too short? Too long?”

“I think,” Harry said slowly, glancing up from the picture, “it’s just right. I want my hair like that.”

Basil rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Excellent! I do love a good makeover.”

He grabbed a cape from the nearby hook and fastened it snugly around Harry’s neck. Then Basil held out his hand and said, “Your glasses, please—if you don’t mind. It makes it easier when they aren’t in the way.”

“Er-yeah, here,” Harry said, handing his glasses to Basil.

Basil took the glasses with a quick, “Thank you,” and set them on the counter, exchanging them for what looked to be, as far as Harry could tell without glasses, scissors.

“Scissors? You don’t use magic?” asked Harry, who was a little disappointed. He had hoped to get to see more magic.

Basil shook his head.

“Magic causes split ends like you wouldn’t believe. No, I avoid magic at all costs when cutting hair,” said Basil, “but, pay attention to the hair I cut off.”

With that, Basil began cutting Harry’s hair. The first long, curly locks fell to the floor and then disappeared.

Harry gaped.

“It’s gone!”

“Of course it is! I wouldn’t be in business long if it didn’t,” said Basil. He let another long curl drop to the floor and vanish. “There are too many magics that can be worked with someone’s hair; almost none of them good,” he said and continued to shape Harry’s hair.

The only sound in the shop was the quiet _snip-snip_ of the scissors followed by an almost inaudible _whoosh_ as the hair vanished, occasionally peppered with a comment from Basil. Harry just watched in awe as the curls he had fought for so long disappeared, bit by bit.

The first time Harry asked to get his hair cut short, he was five and getting ready to enter primary school. Mrs. Figg had been ill that day, and so his Aunt Petunia was forced to take him along when she took Dudley to get his haircut. Aunt Petunia hadn’t planned on letting Harry get his haircut—she always cut his hair herself—but the salon had been running a ‘buy-one-get-one-free’ sale and the hairdresser had taken him off before she could refuse. Harry had almost gotten the stylist to cut his hair like Dudley's when his Aunt Petunia jumped in and said no. For that, Harry was sent to his cupboard until school started, a week later.

“Oh my, you didn’t say you were Harry Potter,” said Basil, lifting the front of Harry’s hair.

Harry slid down in the chair. He never expected that so many people would know him.

“You want it longer, then? Longer than in the picture, so you can hide your scar?”

Letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, Harry nodded. To his relief, Basil didn’t mention his scar or his identity after that. He kept the topics light, telling Harry about his own time at Hogwarts, just a few years ago. And when he realized Harry didn’t know anything about Hogwarts, Basil made sure to explain.

“When you first get there, they split you all into houses. I won’t say how—that’d be telling,” said Basil, wagging his finger at Harry. “There’s four of them: Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Gryffindor. Hufflepuff’s for the kind and hardworking folk, like me. Ravenclaw’s for the clever, bookish types. Slytherin’s for the ambitious and cunning. And Gryffindor—your parents’ house—is for the brave and the daring.”

Basil spun the chair around to look at the front of Harry’s head. He nodded and then handed Harry a hand mirror and his glasses. “What do you think of the back? Do you want me to bring it down tighter?”

Harry studied his hair in the mirror, then reached up to feel the back.

“A bit shorter, maybe?” said Harry, rubbing his hand over the hair at the nape of his neck, “through here?”

“No problem,” Basil said, taking back the mirror and glasses. He spun Harry back around and returned to cutting his hair.

“Where was I? Right. Houses. I think Hufflepuff's the best, of course. Anyone you ask is going to give you a different answer—usually their house, so you shouldn’t choose your house based on that. The dorms though—they’re different. I had friends in every house, so I was in and out of all of them.”

Basil spun Harry around again, and asked, “That feel better?” At Harry’s nod, Basil spun him back around and said, “Just have to clean up your neckline here, then you’ll be good to go.

“The dorms. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw are in towers—beautiful views of the grounds, but they get colder in the winter. Ravenclaw also has small, specialty library, just for Ravenclaw students.

“Hufflepuff and Slytherin are much lower. Hufflepuff is in the basement, just below ground level. The windows are set just above the ground and you can see the grounds go on forever. Slytherin is in the dungeon, below the lake. You can sometimes see the Giant Squid through their windows.

“The Hufflepuff common room is probably the nicest of the lot, coziest—though I’m biased,” Basil told Harry, “and it’s closest to the kitchens, but Slytherin’s the fanciest—most of the rich purebloods get sorted there. They wouldn’t stand for anything but the best.”

Basil paused to brush the hair from Harry’s face and neck and remove the cape. “There we go, all done.”

Harry slid off the chair, put on his glasses, and stared in amazement at the boy in the mirror. His eyes seemed more shockingly green without the curls that used to frame his face, but more importantly, he looked like himself.

“That will be ten sickles,” said Basil, a soft smile on his face.

Harry pulled out his money pouch. Very carefully, he counted out ten silver sickles. He was still amazed that he had his own money. Harry handed the money to Basil.

“Have you given it any thought, ‘Just Harry’, about the house you want to be in?” Basil asked, taking the sickles and turning to clean up the counter.

Harry shook his head, and then smiled. He shook his head again, marveling at the feeling of weightlessness.

“I dunno,” said Harry with a shrug, sobering quickly. “I reckon I’m not any of those things—I’m not brave, or clever, or cunning, or—or—”

“Or kind?” Basil supplied. He crouched down until his face was level with Harry’s. “I think you’re wrong there. The boy I saw sitting in my chair was as kind as any Hufflepuff. And his thirst for knowledge rivals that of the Ravenclaws.”

Harry ducked his head. He could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Why was Basil saying all of these things? Harry flinched when Basil put his hand under his chin and gently lifted his head.

Basil said softly, almost whispering, “While I can’t say anything about your ambitions, I can say that you’re one of the bravest people I’ve had the honor of meeting. I know exactly how hard it is to make yourself into who you’re supposed to be. And any house would be proud to have you—they’d be fools not to. Okay?”

The lump in Harry’s throat had grown so large that he didn’t trust himself to speak. He gave Basil a short nod.

Basil nodded back. “Good. You probably should be on your way. Whoever you came with today is going to be looking for you.”

Harry nodded again.

“Come visit me whenever you’re in Diagon Alley, whether or not you need another haircut. And if you have any more questions about Hogwarts, or school, or even just about life owl me. I might not be much help with school work, but I know a thing or two about life.”

Harry gave Basil a watery smile. “Okay.”

Basil smiled back and gave him a nudge towards the door. “See you later, ‘Just Harry’.”

With that, Harry pushed the door open and headed back out to Horizant Alley, the bell chiming overhead as he left the shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sosososo sorry this took me so long to get up. This last scene was giving me trouble, and every time I'd sit down to spend a lot of time with it, I'd remember that I had a test, or an essay, or a project that was due the next day. Damn school.  
> In the next chapter, we finally get to meet Draco and see them interact!!  
> I hope to have the chapter up the 24th at the latest. Next week is mid-terms and I have exams practically everyday, but after that I should be able to devote time to this.  
> Thank's y'all for reading  
> ~Ryley


	5. Draco Malfoy

In a daze, Harry made his way from Horizant Alley back to Diagon Alley, Basil’s words echoing in his head. He said he knew—that he understood what it was like.

Did that—did he mean…?

Harry didn’t dare hope.

He made his way down Diagon Alley to Madam Malkin’s, dodging the people in the street instinctively, still lost in thought. It took Madam Malkin, a squat, smiling witch dressed in all mauve, several tries to get Harry’s attention.

“Hogwarts, dear?” she said. Harry winced. He could tell she had asked him that several times already. He nodded.

“Just your uniform, then?” she said kindly. Harry opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it again. He looked around the small clothing shop. To his surprise, there was a section of muggle clothes and necessities off to one side. An idea struck him.

Finally, he said, “No. I’d like, er—” He gestured down at his clothes.

“A full kit? Muggle style?” she said. At Harry’s nod, she continued, “Did you want to choose colors and styles? Or just go with the basic kit in greys and browns?”

Harry thought back to what Basil had told him. What had he said about Gryffindor colors? Harry smiled slowly. “Maybe reds and yellows, too?” he said, looking up through his bangs.

Madam Malkin smiled.

“Good, good. Off to the back now. There’s another young man being fitted up for his Hogwarts uniform, just now.”

In the back of the shop, a blond boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. His milk-white skin glowed almost blue in the light of the shop. Madam Malkin stood Harry on the stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

“Hello,” said the boy, “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“My father’s next door buying my books and Mother’s at the apothecary, making sure I don’t end up with subpar potions ingredients. She wouldn’t stand for that. She’s a potions mistress, you see,” said the boy, pausing to take a breath. The boy tried to sound bored, but Harry could hear the excitement creeping into his voice. “I’ll just have my wand left. Then I’ll drag them off to look at racing brooms—the Nimbus 2000’s just released, you know. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. Maybe I can get Father to buy me one and smuggle it in somehow.”

The blond boy’s eyes lit up as he spoke of brooms, despite his attempt at indifference. Harry was strongly reminded of a boy in his year 4 class. He was only there for a few months before moving away, but he had been the closest thing to a friend Harry had ever had. He acted big, like he thought everyone was beneath him, but he somehow always managed to keep Dudley and his gang from “Harry hunting”. And whenever he saw that Harry didn’t have a proper lunch, he’d make a big fuss about how his mother packed the wrong sandwich and how he couldn’t possibly eat it. He always insisted that Harry eat it for him, “So it won’t go to waste, you see”. Harry’d missed him when he moved.

 “Have _you_ got your own broom?” the boy went on.

“No,” said Harry.

“Play Quidditch at all?”

“No,” Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be.

“I do—Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my House, and I must say, I agree. Know what House you’ll be in yet?”

“Not exactly,” said Harry. “Maybe my parent’s House—”

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been—though there was that one Ravenclaw cousin, I suppose that would be acceptable, don’t you?”

Harry had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. Despite the boy’s bluster, he was earnest in a way that was almost endearing.

“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn’t come in.

“That’s Hagrid,” said Harry, pleased to know something the boy didn’t. “He works at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” said the boy, acting disinterested again, “I’ve heard of him. He’s like a gardener, or something, isn’t he?”

“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Harry.

“Yes, that’s right. Father says he lives like some sort of savage—lives in a _hut_ on the school grounds and raises dangerous animals.”

“Well, I think he’s brilliant,” said Harry rather coldly.

“You do?” said the boy. He seemed taken aback by Harry's coldness. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead,” said Harry shortly. “They died when I was a baby.”

“Oh, sorry.” That seemed to knock the wind out of the boy’s sails, at least for the moment.

Before he could continue, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my dear. The rest of your kit’s with Mabel in the front,” and Harry hopped down from the footstool.

“I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said the boy. His brows were furrowed. He seemed to be stuck on the fact that Harry didn’t have any parents.

“I suppose you will,” said Harry. “I look forward to seeing you again.” And, to his surprise, he actually was looking forward to seeing this strange and awkward boy again. Perhaps, Harry thought, this boy could be his first friend.

 

Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought for him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

“What’s up?” said Hagrid.

“Nothing really,” Harry said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He’d learned so much, seen so much, in such a short time and it was quite overwhelming.

They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. He couldn’t not get it—it would make note taking so much easier. At least, that’s what Harry told himself when he added it to his other purchases.

When they left the shop, he said, “Hagrid, what’s Quidditch?”

“Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin’ how little yeh know—not knowin’ about Quidditch!”

“I know,” Harry said darkly. “But what is it?”

“It’s our sport. Wizard sport. It’s like—like football in the Muggle world—everyone follows Quidditch. It’s played up in the air on broomsticks an’ there’s four balls—sorta hard ter explain the rules,” Hagrid said with a shrug. “Prob’ly can find a book on it, if yeh want.”

They bought Harry’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols, and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have been wild to get his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag Harry away from _Curses and Counter-Curses (Bewitch your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tounge-Tying, and Much, Much More)_ by Professor Vindictus Viridian.

“I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley,” he explained.

“I’m not sayin’ that’s not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the Muggle world, except in very special circumstances,” said Hagrid. “An’ anyway, yeh couldn’ work any of them curses yet, yeh’ll need a lot more study before yeh get ter that level. But here. This migh’ intrest yeh.”

Hagrid handed Harry a book. It was bound in bright green leather and ‘ _Quidditch Through the Ages_ by Kennilworthy Whisp’ was embossed in gold on the front. Harry opened to the table of contents and would’ve started reading right then if Hagrid hadn’t reminded him of all the other supplies he still needed.

Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron either (“It says pewter on yer list”), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself examined some of the amazing ingredients on the shelves, like the silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and miniscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry’s list again.

“Just yer wand left—oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got yeh a birthday present.”

Harry felt himself go red.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh’d be laughed at—an’ I don’ like cats, they make me sneeze. I’ll get yeh an owl. All the kids want owls, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’ everythin’.”

 

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. He couldn’t stop stammering his thanks.

“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect you’ve had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now—only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand.”

A magic wand… this was what Harry had been really looking forward to.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._ A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

“You feel it, too? Don’t you?” said a soft voice. Harry jumped and looked around wildly, searching for the source of the voice.

It was an old man, standing before them, his wide pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly.

“Ah, yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work. Felt the magic, too—able to find her wand almost by herself. She would’ve made a fine wand maker, had she lived.”

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry, staring intently. Harry wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

“Except for your eyes, you’re a spitting image of your father at this age. He favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it—it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course. He didn’t feel it. He was much too engrossed with finally getting a wand to notice such subtleties as wand magic.”

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose-to-nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

“And that’s where…”

Without warning, Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead with a long, white finger. Harry flinched, wishing he could step away.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly. “Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do…”

He shook his head and then, to Harry’s relief, stepped back.

“Well, now—Mr. Potter. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

“Er—well, I’m right-handed, if that’s what you mean,” said Harry.

“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and round his head, all while explaining his wands to Harry.

Mr. Ollivander moved to the shelves and was flitting around, taking down boxes, seemingly at random. Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing it on its own.

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Harry took the wand and (feeling a bit foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try—”

Harry tried—but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

“No, no—here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere. Your mother was a tricky customer, too—I wonder—come child.”

Mr. Ollivander headed to the deeper into his shop, to a shelf of boxes stacked haphazardly and covered with even more dust than the ones up front.

He gestured toward the boxes. “Close your eyes. Listen for the call of your wand, Mr. Potter, and answer it,” he said.

Harry stared at the old man. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Mr. Ollivander was pulling his leg. Mr. Ollivander gestured again. Harry pushed that thought to the back of his mind and focused on the wall of boxes in front of him.

Feeling foolish (and beginning to think the feeling was going to be permanent), Harry closed his eyes and reached out to the boxes in front of him. He let his fingers trail along their fronts, leaving tracks in the layer of dust. His hand stopped on a box, in the middle of one of the stacks. Harry opened his eyes.

The box was black and just as dusty and battered as the rest. It wasn’t anything special to look at, but for some reason, Harry wanted to see the wand inside.

Mr. Ollivander spoke, startling Harry from his thoughts, “Go on, then. Open it.”

Carefully, Harry slid the box from its place on the shelf, taking care not to knock over the boxes on top. Opening it, he took the wand gingerly. He felt a sudden warmth, starting in his fingers and spreading up his arms and through the rest of his body; it felt like home, and comfort, and welcome. He raised the wand above his head and brought it swishing down through the dusty air. A melody more joyful and more pure than any Harry had heard before came from the tip of the wand, and a stream of red and gold sparks shot out, dancing to the music.

Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. An unusual combination Mr. Potter—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple…”

Mr. Ollivander trailed off to peer down at Harry. “How curious… How very curious…”

He took Harry’s wand and placed it back into its box, and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious… curious…”

“Sorry,” said Harry, curiosity finally getting the best of him, “but what’s curious?”

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It just so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry swallowed.

“Yes. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great.”

Harry shivered. He wasn’t sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too much. He paid seven gold Galleons for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his shop.

 

oOoOo

 

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley and through the now empty Leaky Cauldron, to the muggle world outside. Harry didn’t speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn’t even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Harry’s lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington Station; Harry only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder.

He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

“You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet,” said Hagrid.

Harry wasn’t sure he could explain. He’d just had the best birthday of his life—and yet—he chewed his hamburger, trying to find the words.

“Everyone thinks I’m special,” he said at last. “All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Mr. Ollivander… but I don’t know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m famous for.” Harry took a deep, shuddering breath and continued, “I don’t—I don’t even know what happened when Vol—the night my parents died.”

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile.

“Don’ you worry, Harry. You’ll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it’s hard. Yeh’ve been singled out, an’ that’s always hard. But yeh’ll have a great time at Hogwarts—I did—still do, ‘smatter of fact.”

Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take him back to the Dursley’s, then handed him an envelope.

“Yer ticket fer Hogwarts,” he said. “First o’ September—King’s Cross—it’s all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursley’s, send me a letter with yer owl, she’ll know where to find me… See yeh soon, Harry.”

The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he blinked and Hagrid had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Draco! The Madam Malkin's scene fought me like no other, until I realized that Draco wasn't ready to offer his hand in friendship yet (yet!). But, don't worry, there will be much more Draco in all of the rest of the chapters!
> 
> On a more serious note, I'm so sorry about that months long hiatus. I had no intention of being gone so long, but: fun fact, college takes up ten times more of your time than you either expect or want it to. (Even more when you're a graduating senior.) I'm hoping to be able to update every couple of weeks, but I'm in my last semester of college, which takes up a lot of time. Not to mention, I attend a state school, and my state is facing a budget shortfall of historic proportions. As it stands now, if the legislators don't get their asses in gear, my school (the flagship institution) will be closed weeks before graduation, and I won't get my diploma. So if I don't update very often in the next few months, it's because I'm fighting to keep my school open, on top of school work.  
> And thank you to all of those who have taken the time to leave comments or kudos. Even if I haven't responded, I have seen them, and they help keep me going on this story.


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